nursing in the airport seats

You think you hate the airport seats—no leg room, your neighbor spilled over the armrest, the person in front of you leaning back and claiming all but the last two inches between your head and the seatback. Now add hunching forward, banging your elbow as you struggle to get the right angle to keep a latch and having the intense stress of knowing if you fail the price is screaming.


The El

Rose sat next to Mike and talked none stop. Why did the announcer say the doors were closing? Who was driving the train? What was that building? And that one? And that one? David nursed to sleep. No one screamed for forty minutes strapped in a car seat as we pushed our way through stop and go traffic. No one said, “When will we get there?” every five minutes. No one missed the departure time for the architecture river tour but raced through hoards of other tourists on Michigan avenue trying to get there anyway. We could see the sun on the rooftops, but we weren’t hot. I could have ridden the El all day.

David asleep in Michael’s arms

We came home from the wedding, from our first time away from David at night, from our longest time away from David ever and found him curled up in Michael’s arms, asleep. Yes, there had been screaming earlier in the evening, but we came home to Madonna and child. And we added to our sleep-inducing repertoire. Who knew that blasting Bruce Springsteen’s Seeger album was the answer?